


The Fears are Paper Owls

by 1000ft



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multiple Realities, Tags to be added, Time Travel, it's a happy ending I promise, time controlling Akaashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-25 01:56:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2604320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000ft/pseuds/1000ft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts small. </p><p>A few seconds, a few minutes. Nothing that catches his attention, just a sense of deja-vu that he shakes off as easily as Bokuto’s mood swings. </p><p>He notices the skips, the rewinds, the pauses, on January fifth, 2016, when he is eighteen years old, and Bokuto Koutarou is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Second

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Amelia Earhart's quote "The fears are paper tigers."

He likes to think he’s a normal person.

He likes volleyball. He likes owls and inaccurate crime dramas. He likes his best friend and captain Bokuto Koutarou.

Akaashi Keiji likes to think that he’s a normal person.

The whole time travel thing tells him differently.

 

…

…

…

 

The first time it happens, he is five years old, and he remembers the incident as something of a five-year-old misconception.

There is an owl sitting in the tree outside his bedroom window, and he wants his mother to see it because it’s an _owl_. His mom always says that his heavy-lidded eyes make him look like one; she jokes that maybe that’s why he’s so grumpy when he wakes up in the mornings.

But the owl is _right there_ , right outside his window, looking at him with golden eyes. As if it was frozen. He gives it the sternest look a five-year-old could muster (“You stay right there, Mr. Owl”) before almost tripping out of his room to get downstairs.

“Mom! Mom, there’s an owl right outside my window, you have’ta--!”

The kitchen is silent.

His mother stands at the sink, taps on, soap bubbling in her hands. And it all stands still. The clock hanging above the kitchen table has stopped ticking.

He blinks and the illusion is gone.

The water splashes into the sink, his mother is moving again, and his heavy breathing echos in the kitchen.

“Mom!”

“Keiji!” She almost shrieks and he winces, watching her whip around to face him, soap clinging to her hands. “When did you get there!” She laughs, but Keiji doesn’t think it sounds like her usual laugh. “You scared me, honey. Ready for bed?”

He nods, and doesn’t remember the owl until he’s in his bed and staring at the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. Forgets the missed opportunity. Falls asleep dreaming of heavy-lidded, golden eyes.

 

…

…

…

 

The air was sharp, the grey  clouds overhead promising snow to blanket the mounds of the stuff that was already there.

“So cold, so cold…”

Akaashi glanced at the nineteen year old walking beside him--or tried to, at least. His face was hidden beneath two scarves, hair tucked into a hat that almost covered his eyes. The tip of his nose was red and he sniffled pathetically.

“It’s not that bad, Bokuto. We’ll be inside in a few minutes, anyway, you can make it.”

Akaashi didn’t see his scarf-covered mouth, but he saw the way Bokuto’s eyes scrunched. “You’ve always been some crazy snow person, huh, Akaashi? Man, last year was awful without you here! No one to help me at practice, no one to buy me hot chocolate on the way to class…”

“I’m not buying you hot chocolate.”

“But--!”

“We’ll be late.”

Bokuto huffed and crossed his arms tighter across his chest. “...Fine.”

They walk in silence, and Akaashi can’t help but think that he’s been dreaming about missed opportunities and heavy-lidded golden eyes for quite a while. He just doesn’t know how to break this to Bokuto. The man seems disinterested in any kind of serious intimate relationship--doesn’t talk about girls, doesn’t go on dates, hates romance movies with a passion that only Bokuto could acquire--and Akaashi’s hesitant to ask.

“Akaashi!”

An arm wraps around his shoulders and jostles him. He jumps the slightest bit.

“You usually have that kind of no-nonsense look on your face, but your eyes were a bit out of it this time. Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

Akaashi has a moment to think of a response that isn’t the truth and doesn’t sound outrageously unlike him. If he hesitates too long, Bokuto will bug him about it on end, until he sinks into one of his moods and--

“Akaashi!”

An arm wraps around his shoulders and jostles him. He passively swivels his gaze from the sidewalk in front of him to Bokuto.

“Yes?”

Bokuto’s eye narrow the slightest bit, like he’s debating on whether or not to say what’s on his mind. In a breath, the crease between his eyebrows smooths and he grins.

“Ya sure we can’t make it to a coffee place before our first class?”

He doesn’t even bother checking his watch. “We are not going to be late for the first day of class, Bokuto. Let’s go.”

Akaashi lengthens his stride, knowing that Bokuto can easily match his pace but hoping that he’ll walk the slightest bit behind. Akaashi doesn’t want him to see the furrow between his eyes as he gets over the sense of something _wrong_.

 

…

....

…

 

Kuroo _just so happens_ to be in their first class.

Akaashi hears the “Oh ho!” when they enter the lecture hall, and his sigh is lost in the corresponding “Oh ho ho!” If they weren’t always doing stupid things, Akaashi thinks, he might be jealous that Bokuto spent so much time with Nekoma’s old captain.

He nudges Bokuto into the room and towards Kuroo before they can start shouting obscenities across the lecture hall.

 

…

…

…

 

The weekend before classes began, Akaashi had moved into the suite-style dorm that Bokuto, Kuroo, and Yaku Morsiuke occupied.

It was a cramped two bedrooms, a wide space that doubled as a kitchen and a living room, and a bathroom (with a shower head that Akaashi could just barely stand under. Yaku was immensely smug about it). Akaashi had been stuck with Bokuto perched on his bed (even though his was a foot and a half away) as he unpacked, and the first night sleeping there he’d been woken up at three A.M. being asked his opinion on bunk beds.

The excitement of having your best friend living with you for the foreseeable future had Bokuto overjoyed. Akaashi was thankful he hadn’t been swept into a full-body hug yet (Bokuto’s were notoriously known as bone-crushing) and he was even more thankful that Bokuto had picked up on his boundaries early on in their friendship.

(Akaashi can see it in his head, when he’d first joined the volleyball team, first met Bokuto, first been tugged into his arms with a “Akaashi, you’re such a good setter!” and Akaashi had _panicked_. He’d frozen, Bokuto had frozen, it seemed like the entire gym had stopped before Akaashi pushed himself away and looked down to flatten his gym shirt, hiding his face the best he could.

When he looked back to Bokuto--not the captain yet, a year off--the second year was blinking rapidly at him and looked more confused than hurt by Akaashi pulling away.

“I’d appreciate it if you refrained from grabbing me, Bokuto-san.”

He’d received a firm nod and a quiet “I understand” before Bokuto was off, across the gym, nagging at the third year setter to teach Akaashi that “super cool _wahh-chaa!!_ move” he did.)

 

…

….

….

 

When they step out of the science building an hour later, it’s snowing.

Kuroo leaves them with a wave and a promise of “kicking your owl asses later” at some game he’s borrowed from Kenma. Akaashi blandly states that he’s looking forward to it.

“So...we can get hot chocolate now…”

“I’ll text you if you want to meet me for lunch. My next class is in ten minutes,” Akaashi checked the time on his phone, wincing as Bokuto made some kind of celebratory hoots.

Akaashi kicked at his foot and grumbled “It’s just lunch, calm down.”

“But it’s with my dear, dear setter!” Bokuto grabs him in a hug, and Akaashi allows it for a few seconds before his cheeks are more red from the contact than the cold.

“I’m going now.”

“Okay, okay, see you later!” They pull apart and Bokuto’s gone in an instant. As Akaashi is turning away, he glances back just once.

There’s a strange, oily feeling in the pit of his stomach that tells him he should have let himself be hugged a little longer. 


	2. Two Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two minutes to reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a side note I did not edit this 
> 
> Also, I wasn't going to put Kenma at the same school as Kuroo but I forgot I was doing that and he kind of wormed his way into things and I'm too lazy to take him out. Go Kenma.

By the time his second class ended, the light snow had become a storm.

Akaashi loved winter. Loved the cold and the snow and _might_ love the way Bokuto grumbled about it unless he was plastered to Akaashi’s side on whoever’s coach under a minimum of three blankets.

(The last one was relatively new, but he’s not going to think about it too much.)

But this snow, flakes falling like anvils, sticking to any and every available surface, is making him nervous. The slick, oily feeling in the pit of his stomach has doubled, and just this once, the cold is running sending shivers of ice-like fear down his spine.

Akaashi sends Bokuto a text: _Done with class. Meet me at the coffee place beside the library in five?_

He waits a minute, two minutes, and he starts to sweat under his jacket. Bokuto always texts back--he’s got record timing in responses. Akaashi and the rest of the volleyball team in high school had measured the average response time: two minutes had been the longest it had taken Bokuto to respond, ever. Remembering this does not reassure Akaashi, and he picks up his pace, rounding the corner of the science building and making his way towards the library. He could see it down the street, but the street was barely visible with the layer of snow that was blowing around on it.

There is a screech of tires from the road up ahead, but there’s a building blocking whatever’s happened. Akaashi feels like he’s going to vomit.

His phone buzzes in his hands, and he almost drops it. _Be there in like two minutes!!!! this snow is scaaaryy~_

Akaashi breathes a sigh of relief, but the feeling in his stomach has moved to his chest, squeezing his lungs, his heart, his throat, and the end of the street comes into his field of vision as he passes the building to his left.

There’s sirens in the distance. Smoke.

There’s someone lying in the road, and there’s a delivery truck that’s half-way onto the sidewalk.

Akaashi feels cold--colder than he was seconds ago.

He knows that jacket.

He knows that hideous, gold-yellow jacket. Knows there’s a black outline of an owl on the back. Knows there’s a dark red stain on the right sleeve that looks like blood but is actually paint.

The air freezes in his lungs. The air _freezes_ and he’s running.

It’s a short distance away--the sound of the ambulance has stopped, the ticking of the truck that Akaashi knows is supposed to be there is silenced, the people that have been running towards the scene have froze.

Akaashi feels like he’s the only one moving, and the four inches of snow on the grounds makes his feet feel slow.

The student is lying on his side, away from Akaashi, but _he knows that jacket. He knows that jacket. He knows that jacket, he knows--_

He doesn’t feel the impact of the ground against his knees, just sees the back of Bokuto’s head come closer. Bokuto’s shoulder is cold--but it’s just because it’s cold outside, Akaashi’s mind supplies him with--but the back of Bokuto’s head, where his hat has fallen off, is warm when Akaashi presses a hand into his hair.

He has a hysterical thought that his friend will be mad that his hair has been mused.

“Bokuto…” Akaashi hears his own voice as if from a distance. He pulls his hand away from Bokuto’s head--it’s warm, too warm, too slick, too much hair gel, Bokuto, you don’t need that much hair g--

Akaashi’s hand comes away red.

He chokes.

Ice. there’s ice making it’s way into his throat.

Where is the ambulance? Why isn’t the ambulance here? _Where is everyone? Why isn’t anyone helping? Bokuto can’t. He can not d--_

Akaashi wipes his hand on his jeans and presses two fingers against his neck, saying Bokuto’s name over and over like a prayer to fix whatever it is that's been broken because there's a truck right over there with a dent in the front of it and here's his best friend lying i the street and his head's bleeding and he's not moving and Akaashi can't feel anything under his fingers, oh god, oh god, please god, not Bokuto, not him, please someone help--

Distantly, Akaashi hears the sirens again, hears the crunching of snow under feet. Hears people shouting at him--at him? At the world? Are they angry that Bokuto his hurt, too? Not as angry as him, he loves Bokuto, he loves him, and he hasn’t been able to say anything--

“Bokuto. Koutarou. I love you, I love you, I love you…”

Akaashi feels hands on his hands, drawing him away, hears sirens, closer now, here’s shouts and screams and he’s not sure if they’re being ripped from his throat and he’s not sure why his cheeks feel raw. He knows there’s something hot stinging his eyes, like the snow has suddenly turned to acid, and there’s arms holding him back as his feet kick up snow because they are _dragging him away--why. Why are they dragging me? Bokuto’s right there, he’s--_

Right there.

“--ashi! Akaashi! Please, Akaashi, please stop, jesus, please…”

There’s a voice in his ear, strangely familiar, and not at all the voice he wants to hear. He closes his mouth--had he been screaming? Was that pathetic sobbing coming from him? Was this his pain in his chest?

Akaashi turns his head to look at the familiar black hair of Kuroo, who’s got Akaashi by the arms and is pulling him away from the boy lying in the street.

The paramedics are there now, Akaashi notes. They look grim.

Kuroo spins him so Akaashi has no choice but to look at him. “Akaashi please, it’s fine, it’s fine, he’ll be okay, just an accident, just…” Kuroo’s words are empty, they both know. They can see the blood now--god, so much blood, so much blood, snow isn’t supposed to be that color. Snow is white, not that glaring red.

Akaashi looks back to Kuroo, whose face is splotchy and he’s got tears dripping from his chin, the end of his nose, and his grip on Akaashi’s arms is so tight his hands have gone numb.

But maybe that’s from the cold.

 

….

….

….

  


It was the angle.

If he had been a few inches ahead, or a few inches to the left, or if he’d turned just like so.

If. If. If. _If._

Akaashi has nothing left in his stomach, so he’s dry heaving over a trash can. He can feel the sting behind his eyelids, feel Kuroo sitting beside him, unmoving, staring blankly at the bulletin board in front of them that advocates something that Akaashi has already forgotten.

Somewhere in the hospital, Bokuto Koutarou is lying on on a stretcher with no pulse and brain trauma that had killed him on impact.

A strangled sound rips itself out of Akaashi’s chest, and it echos into the trash can at his feet. It’s a sob, doubled back to him that makes another follow, and he pushes the trash can away, letting his head fall back against the wall.

He stares at the ceiling without really seeing it. He see’s his best friend, the first time he’d seen him with his hair down and hadn't recognized him, the last year they played volleyball and almost won nationals, the times Bokuto had insisted on staying the night at Akaashi’s house and ended up worming his way into Akaashi’s bed. The way Bokuto’s eyes lit up at the promise of home cooked food or small animals or--

There are tears dripping from the end of his jaw, and the sound of the waiting room doors flying open is a vague thing in the back of his mind. He glances over warily.

Yaku. Then Kenma behind him, both looking pale and spotting him and Kuroo immediately. There’s another person with them--Sugawara, was that it? Akaashi remembers him from Karasuno, remembers the ash blonde hair and the sweet face. Team mom. Just like him.

Sugawara almost seems to hesitate as Yaku and Kenma rush over, but he must see something in Akaashi’s eyes, because then he’s moving just as quickly across the room as the other two.

He doesn’t pay attention to Kenma, whose in front of Kuroo instantly, trying to work his way into the taller’s blank stare. Yaku looks like he wants reach out and touch Akaashi’s, but he hesitates, letting Sugawara gently push him aside.

Akaashi closes his eyes, and the next thing he knows he’s being grabbed by a fistful of his jacket and hauled to his feet.

“What--” his voice startles him. It’s rough and strained, barely there, and he sees Sugawara’s face for an instant before he’s pulled into his arms. There’s a hand in his hair and one at his back, holding him tight. The ache in his chest doubles and Akaashi digs his head into Sugawara’s shoulder. His mouth suddenly wants to move.

“We were going to get lunch.” Akaashi’s voice is muffled and weak. Suga’s hand tightens in his hair and his voice sounds a little watery to Akaashi.

“I know.”

“He wanted hot chocolate.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t get to--”

“Akaashi--”

 _It must be terrifying for them_ , Akaashi thinks hysterically, _too see the unshakeable Akaashi Keiji like this._

“I didn’t get to tell him...”  

…

…

…

 

Five minutes later, Akaashi has collapsed with his head on Suga’s shoulder and Kuroo has hold of his sleeve as if for reassurance. Kenma is curled into Kuroo’s lap. Yaku has been talking on the phone is hushed tones. And Akaashi _realizes._

The odd feeling in his stomach. The moment when time had seemed to freeze--the sirens had stopped, and he can see it now, the way the snow had paused midair, and how people had stopped moving.

Akaashi can remember now. When he was younger and there was an owl outside his window, when he was ten and he’d been looking forward to a friend’s birthday that was hours away, and he’d blinked and the day had passed, just that morning-- _was it really just that morning_ \--before Bokuto had pulled him into a hug ( _and I should have hugged him back, should have hugged him back, should have--_ ) and things had seemed to skip backwards.

Akaashi was level-headed. He took things as they came. He accepted the facts, if they were straightforward enough. And all at once, Akaashi remembered the facts that he had spent years pushing away.

Time... was, somehow, impossibly, inexplicably _his._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has shown interest in this fic! The first few chapters of things are always the hardest to write for me. 
> 
> Anyway. I'm not really good at writing heart wrenching scenes, like it's really hard for me get emotions in there, so if you've got tips or anything, let me know??? I'd appreciate it a lot.


	3. Three Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three hours later, and he's in the same hospital, same people, same phone call, same same same...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ones kind of just "meh" like im really not liking how it turned out   
> akaashi is so fucking hard to write goodbye

The dorm he’s been living in for the past week seems empty.

Akaashi finds this exceedingly unfair--it’s only been a week and it shouldn’t feel like anything at all to him yet. He eyes the two beds on either side of the room, shedding his coat, scarf, gloves, and collapsing face-first into the bed opposite his.

He inhales and grips the sheets in white-knuckled fists.

…

…

…

 

Before they’d left the hospital, Yaku had handed Akaashi his phone.

Suga sent the shorter a look that could have been construed as a warning, but Akaashi took the phone regardless.

He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out raspy. “Hello?”

“Keiji...Are you okay?”

He inhaled sharply, dislodging the hand Sugawara had on his back and standing on shaking legs. “M-Mrs. Bokuto, I’m...I couldn’t...do anything. I should have been there, and I--I shouldn’t have told him to meet me, the weather was bad it--”

“No, sweetheart, it’s not your fault, calm down, please.” Akaashi could hear her voice waver. Bokuto Akane was a kind, honest woman, and she deserved so much more than this, so much more than a dead son and a someone like him who couldn’t keep a simple promise to look out for h--

“Akaashi Keiji, I don’t want you blaming yourself for this, you hear? You can blame the s-snow, blame the weather, but do not blame yourself. K--” she took a shuddering breath. “Koutarou wouldn’t blame you for this, honey. You were his best friend and he loved you so, so much. My idiot son probably didn’t tell you himself, but he did.”

Akaashi closed his eyes, tilting his head back and trying to keep his exhale from shuddering.

“Thank you, Akane-san.”

…

…

…

 

Distantly, Akaashi is aware that he is forgetting something important.

But with the his face buried in Bokuto’s ridiculous owl pillow, he doesn’t want to remember. It smells like his idiot friend, like peppermint toothpaste and laundry detergent and Koutarou.

He's not sure how to separate the thoughts in his head--not sure how to distinguish which ache in his chest is from regret (should have told him, should have told him) and which is self-loathing. Should have done something, he should've done something.

If he hadn't sent the text, if they could've met anywhere else, if he had hugged him back a little longer, if he had just kissed him before he even left for college, if if if if _if._

Akaashi falls asleep with wet eyelashes and a crippling pain in the pit of his stomach.

...

...

...

There is an alarm blaring.

Akaashi jolts upright, kicking at the sheets tangled around his legs before reaching over and slapping his alarm clock off. He feels groggy, his eyes crusty, head is pounding--Akaashi debates how bad a student he’d seem if he didn’t show up for the second day of classes.

Movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention and he turns slowly-- _what's wrong, why does this feel wrong, something's_ not right--and watches Bokuto stretch his arms over his head, yawning.

“Mornin’, Akaashi…”

Akaashi momentarily contemplates the likelihood of himself still sleeping.

He checks the clock--7:30 AM--and hastily grabs for his phone, breath turning erratic as he fumbles to unlock it, check the time, the day, what’s the _date_ \--

January sixth, 2016.

The first day of class.

Bokuto...January sixth--this was a hallucination, an elaborate dream, this was--

Akaashi squeezes his eyes shut, ignoring Bokuto's worried "Uh...Akaashi? Are you alright?" before slowly pushing out of his bed and crossing the room to Bokuto's. The older is sitting upright, looking at him with concerned, heavy-lidded eyes. Akaashi sits at the edge of his mattress, wraps his arms around Bokuto's waist, and lets his head drop against his chest.

"H-hey! It's okay, it's...okay? Akaashi...?"

Akaashi sucks in a shuddering breath that sounds more like a semi-hysterical laugh. He mumbles "Bad dream" into Bokuto’s shirt.

Bokuto reacts now, placing one hand on Akaashi's back and carding the other through black, unruly hair. Akaashi knows Bokuto touches people constantly, but he never knew about this, sitting practically in the other’s lap and listening to the heartbeat against his ear. (Akaashi has decided to stop caring how Bokuto will react.) “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.” He says it too fast, shudders. Tightens his grip on Bokuto.

“Hey, Akaashi?”

“Hm.”

“Let’s get hot chocolate before class.”

“...Just this once.”

…

…

…

 

Akaashi goes through his morning with a familiar sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.

It’s playing out exactly like it had before--he’s not sure what’s going on, not sure what he’s missing, what he’s decided not to remember, but it’s crucial, and not knowing is cramping his stomach and making him sweat in the negative-degree weather.

Bokuto notices.

“You usually have that kind of no-nonsense look on your face, but your eyes are a bit out of it this time. Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

The words are familiar, and Akaashi doesn’t respond, just gives him a small twitch of his lips that is supposed to be a reassuring smile (it’s not) and grabs his gloved hand and squeezes. Tells Bokuto that he’ll text him later.

(It feels like a goodbye.)

(Akaashi has a bad feeling that it is.)

The feeling sticks with him throughout his second class of the day, and when the professor lets them out, he’s sprinting. He sends Bokuto a text as best he can at the pace he’s running: _Meet me for lunch in five?_

It doesn’t have to be the way it was. He can change it, prevent it. Walk with him, can pull him back right before anything is hit, if he has to.

Akaashi can see the library in front of him, sees the clock face on the front, and the feeling in his chest expands, tightens his throat. That’s why. Time. That’s what it was.

He hears it again, but the sound is muted, distant. Long, drawn out screech of tires over snow-slicked roads.

He can see Bokuto this time. See the hideous jacket that Akaashi and Mrs. Bokuto had tried, on various occasions, to subtly stuff in the trash. Crossing the street--of course the moron would be looking _at his phone when he was crossing the goddamn road, christ, Bokuto Koutarou, look at the road!_

Akaashi is sprinting, trying desperately to remember what had happened last time he’d been here. Time. It was time--he could manipulate it, at the most--he could pause it--so why wasn’t it working, why wasn’t he _stopping_ \--

He’s screaming his name, he knows he is, but Bokuto’s head is swiveling, not towards Akaashi, but the truck that’s skidding on snow slicked roads, not stopping, not stopping, _it’s not stopping_ \--

\--JUST STOP.

Akaashi hears the impact and vaguely wonders why Bokuto hadn’t texted him back this time.

He’s ten feet away. Too late. Five. Four. Too late.

_Too late._

There’s silence again--the same silence as before, and Akaashi looks up, away from the red that’s already begun seeping into the blanket of snow that’s covering the road. There are snowflakes suspended above him, unmoving. He can’t bring himself to look back down.

Akaashi is aware that tears will freeze on his cheeks if he cries in this weather. The helpless, _useless_ , frustration bubbling in his throat doesn’t care.

( _too late too late  too late too late too late couldn’t make it in time_ )

He lets his knees hit the concrete and waits for the sound of sirens. 


	4. Four Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It could be four days that he goes through this, it could be four months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what im doing with this anymore, this chapter is a mess 
> 
> also follow me on tumblr at my writing/art blog thursdayloud for more bokuaka or my considerably much more entertaining main blog issyloud

Akaashi wakes up to his alarm the next day.

And like the day before, Bokuto is sitting up in bed, stretching arms above his head and yawning, and Akaashi can say it with him now, the “Mornin’, Akaashi!”

This day, he knows, will be the January sixth he’s been reliving.

It’s time travel. He doesn’t know how, or why, or what he’s doing that makes him able to manipulate it--he assumes that’s what he’s doing. He keeps pausing, keeps blinking and he’s in his bed, waking up to his alarm clock, back to January sixth, back to Bokuto. If he knew how to _control it_ this wouldn’t be happening. He’d be able to fix things, to find a way to make Bokuto live, because even if he doesn’t text him, even if he tells him to wait…

Akaashi is convinced--he _knows_ \-- that he can save him, and he’s tired of it being Bokuto. He would die. He would die a thousand times if it meant he didn’t have to relive this, didn’t have to watch again.

Because he’s lost count of how many times he’s watched.

It keeps happening. Again, and again, and again, he’s _lost count_ of how many times he’s woken up to see Bokuto across from him, alive, breathing, smiling. Akaashi feels cold, constantly, because there’s no way of knowing if he can control whatever it is that’s going on, he can’t save him, no matter how many things he does.

Akaashi, for all the pride he has in his usual calm disposition, is afraid.

Tired.

If Bokuto Koutaro’s not breathing--if he can’t save him after all--Akaashi’s not sure if he wants to keep waking up.

 

….

…

…

 

Akaashi dreams that he’s thirty years old.

He can’t remember what it’s about when he wakes up, only that he’s older, that it’s in the future, somewhere, and that even those details are being replaced by the insistent beep from his alarm clock.

He turns it off and lays in bed, staring at the ceiling. Wait’s for the “Mornin’, Akaashi!”

And waits.

Waits.

The air in the room is suddenly much colder, and Akaashi turns his head slowly, watching the light that seeps around the blinds, watches the dust caught between the two beds.

Bokuto is not there.

Akaashi closes his eyes and wants to be relieved. But the hammering of his heart in his chest tells him he’d live this day over for the rest of his life if it meant--

…

…

…

Akaashi doesn’t go to class. Doesn't check the date. 

He rolls over in bed, buries his face in his pillow, and let’s the ache in his eyes lull him back to sleep.

 

…

…

…

The next time he wakes up, his alarm sounds louder than before.

Akaashi switches it off, opening his eyes to the sunlight that looks a little different, too--not different as in the time of day, but a different angle through the window, and there’s a different smell in the air, and--

This isn’t his dorm room.

Akaashi bolts upright, surveying the room, the bed that he must’ve kicked the sheets off of. His head feels heavy, sluggish, and it’s _pounding_.  

“Time…” he faintly hears himself muttering aloud, rubbing at his face with both hands. The stubble on his jaw is rough against his palms--stubble that hadn’t been there yesterday. “Definitely time.”

Akaashi glances to the alarm clock--7:00 A.M.--and grabs for what looks like a phone right beside it (but certainly not his phone) and unlocks the screen.

The date, in bold, mocking numbers, is rolling across it.

 _January 6th, 2026_.

He looks up and around the sparse bedroom like it will confirm this. “2026.” The year tastes sour on his tongue, and he’d laugh if he thought it wouldn’t come out hysterical. “It’s 2026.”

As if agreeing with him, the phone in his hand vibrates with an incoming call. The caller ID shocks him more than it should have: _Akaashi Ai_.

“Ai?”

“Keiji, hey! I’m about an hour away from you, the traffic in Tokyo today was insane, you wouldn’t believe it. Did I wake you up?”

The familiarity of his sister’s voice was reassuring, even it it did sound a bit older and bit more stressed. Her words sunk in a few moments after he’d established that it was actually his sister calling him.

“You’re on your way?”

Her laughter is strained. “I must’ve woken you up if you’re forgetting we had plans today. I’m almost there, so, just...hang tight, little bro.”

Even waking up more or less in a stranger’s life, Akaashi knows what this is about--January 6th would be the anniversary of Bokuto’s death. But...

It’s 2026. He’s, what, twenty eight now? Akaashi shakes his head at nothing--ten years and he’s not over the death of his best friend? Ten years and his sister needs to babysit him?  

If this is his future, he wants no part of it.

“Keiji? You there?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Akaashi murmurs. “Yeah, you woke me up, I’m still half asleep. I’ll see you later, Ai.”

Her voice is hesitant. “Okay, Keiji. See ya soon.”

Akaashi hangs up without replying, tossing the phone onto the bed and swinging his legs to the floor. His feet hit glass.

“What the hell…” Scattered across the floor are empty bottles, a few glasses, one broken, one still half full. He reads the labels from his seat on the bed, but he has a feeling he already knows what they say.

Scotch. The empty one’s whiskey. There’s a bottle of vodka, but it’s full, and Akaashi suddenly remembers the headache pounding at his head. Thank god he hadn’t consumed all of that.  

He steps around the broken glass, heading to the door he can see a bathroom through. The light flickers when he turns it on (he almost thinks it won’t make it, but it does), and the mirror shows him a stranger.

There are bags under his eyes, and the stubble on his face looks worse than it feels. His hair reminds him of Kuroo, and he runs a hand through the top, watching his curls straighten out and stay there--Akaashi figures he really needs a shower if his hair is sticking up like the spikes that Bokuto used to style.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he mutters. The bitterness in his voice surprises him, and watching the stranger in the mirror move with him is disconcerting. He doesn’t have that bruised color under his eyes, he doesn’t have creases between his eyebrows (and, jesus, he’s twenty eight, not forty, where did the wrinkles in his forehead come from?).

He glares at the reflection. “I need to go back. How do I get back?”

There’s no answer.

“But how did I do it the first time? What triggers it? Is it random?” Akaashi runs another hand through his hair, turning on his heel and marching back into the bedroom. He’s pacing.

“Before I woke up here…” He thinks back. Just the usual cycle he’d been trapped in. Except for that dream--the dream he’d had about being older, that he can’t remember...

“Dreams? Is it my dreams? No…” That wouldn’t explain why he kept waking up to Bokuto still alive, only to re-live the same events. “If I could just think of a time, think of a place in time, and…”

Just picture a timeline and wake up. Akaashi stopped, letting his hands fall to his sides and closing his eyes. Pictured a timeline in his head, pictured Bokuto, let his smile play through his head, the sound of his voice, remembered that time Bokuto had told him about getting lost in the park, about a stranger finding him (and that was, oddly, how he’d gotten into volleyball, and--)

Akaashi can feel himself getting carried away, and he lets out a frustrated sigh before opening his eyes.

He sucks in a breath of mild, summer air. He’s not in the apartment anymore.

It’s night, cool air blowing through his hair (which doesn’t feel as nearly as unwashed as a few seconds ago) and he hastily brings his hands to his face--no stubble, just smooth skin under his palms.  

“It worked,” he whispers, the noise lost in the rustle of trees overhead. “It’s that simple.”

Akaashi knows that it wasn’t what had happened before--maybe the other times were so instinctive that using something to control it wasn’t even necessary. Maybe the timeline had been a fluke and he’d moved somewhere in time while he was picturing it because that was how coincidences work.

He’ll worry about it later, though.

He’s in some kind of park, and there’s a playground a few feet away from him, with enough light to see a child sitting in one of the swings, scuffing his feet back and forth.

Akaashi isn’t sure where this is--he isn’t even sure if this is his own timeline, he’s not sure how this works, doesn't know the rules. His feet move him towards the kid on the swing regardless. Maybe he could ask where--and when--he was.

“Hello…” Akaashi watches the kid’s attention snap to him. If he had to guess, Akaashi’d place the kid around six years old, and he’s just a little concerned that someone this young is out by himself.

But the golden eyes that snap up to his are very familiar, even if the choppy black hair sweeping over the kid’s forehead is not.

“Hey, hey, hey! Can you push me? It’s _boring_ out here without people to play with.”

Akaashi’s feet aren’t moving, and he’s fairly certain his heart has stopped. This definitely isn’t his timeline if he’s standing here, in front of--

“My name’s Bokuto Koutaro. We can be friends, if you want.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, huge thank you to everyone giving me wonderful comments! I promise it'll be a happy ending though, so don't worry!! (Also, not gonna lie I was laughing when I read some of your comments. I think I'm turning into a sadist.)
> 
> Also, just a heads up, Dead Week is next week for my classes, so it's hard to say if there'll be an update next weekend. Even having it up this weekend was a struggle. But the week /after/ that, I'll try for two updates


	5. Five Weeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I almost told you five weeks after I met you, when you tripped over the net pole after practice. Do you remember that?! Your face was so red--"  
> "No, I don't remember that, I don't know what you're talking about."  
> "It was--!"  
> "Don't remember."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GWAAAHH I got this out before the weekend heyyy  
> Also, I'd like to formally apologize for 1. the last chapter being shit, and 2. I can't write fluff to save my life. Only angst. This is probably a good time to remind you that it's a happy ending, don't worry. 
> 
> anyway fun story: when I write the crosswalk, I always picture this spot on my campus and I walk by it every day and now when I cross the street I kind of laugh to myself like "heh I killed Bokuto here"

“Oi, you didn’t tell me your name!”

Akaashi pushes at the swing to make it go a little higher. He doesn’t know what to say to this six year old Bokuto--doesn’t know what effects the timeline, if a timeline will be affected. Akaashi’s new to this whole time travel deal.

He pushes Bokuto in silence for a few more seconds before answering. He doesn’t doubt that the kid would be squirming impatiently if he wasn’t on a swing.

“My name’s Keiji.” If he messes anything up in the future--well, it’s already worse case scenario.

“Keiji-san, do you play sports? I want to be a super famous baseball player!”

Akaashi’s glad that Bokuto can’t see the wry smirk threatening to break out across his lips. “Baseball, huh? I play volleyball.”

“V-oll-ey-ball. What’s that?”

Akaashi shakes his head at the absurdity of the conversation. He never thought he’d be having this conversation with Bokuto, let alone a six year old Bokuto.

“It’s six people on a court, and the objective is to hit a ball onto the other side of a net and score points.”

“Hit the ball with your _hands_?”

“Yes, with your hands.”

Akaashi pushes a little more, sends the swing a little higher.

“That sounds fun. Will you teach me how to play?”

He almost laughs. “Maybe someday, Bokuto. Isn’t it a little late to be out? Your mom’s probably worried about you.”

Bokuto drags his heels into the dirt beneath him as he’s swinging back to Akaashi, hopping out of the seat before it’s even stopped. Akaashi sighs--as if he’d expect a six year old to be more controlled than the twenty-year old he’d left back in his time.

(The twenty-year old that had left _him_.)

“Thank you, Keiji-san, that was fun! But I should go home now--you wanna come over? My mom makes really good food and--!”

“I’ll have to pass this time, Bokuto.” He reaches out and ruffles the kid’s hair on impulse. Bokuto scrunches his face up and ducks away.

“But who’s going to teach me to play molleyball!”

“Volleyball.”

“Yeah, that!”

Akaashi laughs--it starts small in his chest, and he feels his shoulder shaking with the force of it. It feels good--so, desperately, ridiculously good--to laugh. The kid in front of him giggles along, just for the hell of it, Akaashi supposes, and the sound is relieving.

“Do you need me to walk you home, Keiji-san? It’s scary when it’s dark…” Familiar--younger--golden eyes dart to either side of them, around the park, and back to Akaashi. He grins and puts a hand to the six-year old’s shoulder to spin him around and give him a nudge forward.

“That’s alright, Bokuto. My house is just a little past yours, I bet, so we can walk with each other until then.”

The smile that pushes at Bokuto’s pudgy cheeks is beyond endearing (Akaashi wonders how he’d never seen pictures of Bokuto as a child before).

The kid babbles on about everything and nothing as they walk--school, shows he likes, foods he doesn’t, the way the teenager down the street spikes his hair--and they reach the Bokuto household in minutes. Bokuto gives him a small wave and a “see you, Keiji-san! I need to learn volleyball, don’t forget!”

Akaashi waits until he’s through the front door before walking on. The night is warm, cicadas chirping nearby; ideal spring weather if he ever saw it. It makes him feel nostalgic, and he knows that the feeling is caused by a little bit more than a nice night. He needs to get back to his time, after all.

But.

He needs to try again, one more time.

Akaashi closes his eyes, breathes deep, and pictures the same timeline as before, time set at January 5th, 2016, and if this was how it worked, then--

 

…

…

…

 

His alarm clock is blaring.

Akaashi slaps at it halfheartedly until he hits the off switch. He keeps his eyes shut until the familiar--

“Mornin’, Akaashi.”

He turns his head and cracks one eye, watching Bokuto stretch his arms above his head and yawn.

“Keiji.”

Bokuto stops mid-yawn and drops his arms, looking over at him with bleary eyes. “Huh?”

“Call me Keiji.”

Bokuto snaps his mouth shut, and the sound echos in the room. He looks awake now, gold eyes wide and body still. The shock wipes any other kind of emotion off his face--Akaashi is vaguely worried that he’s broken him--before a grin stretches across his lips and breaks into a full-blown smile.

“Mornin’, Keiji.”

Akaashi sends him a small, barely-there smile that mirrors the clenching in his chest. “Good morning, Koutaro.”

He has to save him this time.

 _Has to_.

 

…

…

…

 

Akaashi has a plan.

He skips his second class of his first day of college--because, honestly, Bokuto Koutaro is much more important than attendance--and waits outside the library, on a bench directly across from the crosswalk. And he waits.

He’s learned--even if doesn’t call Bokuto here, to this exact place, the older of the two still ends up here, at that exact moment, texting Akaashi about lunch or hot chocolate or how Kuroo got kicked out of their second class in a record ten minutes.

When he gets the text--this time it’s _They’re building snowmen on south quad!!!!_ \--he can see Bokuto making his way through clusters of students on the sidewalk, heading for the crosswalk. Akaashi glances up the road, sees the truck not even ten seconds away. And sets his plan in motion.

He’s running for the crosswalk as Bokuto’s walking through it--he sees Akaashi running towards him, grins, waves (falters when he sees Akaashi’s face, which probably looks as panicked as he feels). Bokuto’s head swivels back to the road just in time to see the truck, and Akaashi doesn’t even think he notices that he’s directly in it’s path. His lungs burn from the cold air, but he’ll make it--he’ll make it this time.

Akaashi runs into the street, grabs Bokuto at the waist, and tackles him back onto the asphalt.

His eyes are closed, face pressed into the god awful jacket, but he hears the screech of brakes, the slush of half-melted snow under tires. Then nothing but a stalling engine and a fast, solid heartbeat beneath him.

“...Ow.”

“You _idiot!_ Look both ways before you _cross the fucking street!_ ”

Akaashi brings his head up and tries to glare--honest to god tries to, but the relief that loosens the knots in his stomach is too palpable to keep from his face.

Underneath him, Bokuto pushes up onto his elbows, wincing. “Whoa, thanks, Keiji, I--”

“No, I changed my mind, you can’t call me that anymore.”

“Hey! No fa--”

Akaashi is distantly aware of students gathering around them; he can hear the truck driver saying something that, honestly, he doesn't quite care to hear. He ignores the slush seeping into his pants, the cold road, and clasps Bokuto’s cheeks between his gloved hands.

“Bokuto Koutaro, don’t you ever do anything like that ever again.”

“Okay.”

Akaashi brushes stray snowflakes off Bokuto’s cheek before he leans in and kisses him.

Bokuto presses back immediately, threading his hand into the hair at the back of Akaashi’s head. He doesn’t even mind that Bokuto’s hand is freezing.

Bokuto pulls back enough to look at him, and the smile breaking across his red-flushed face is incredible. It's almost like he's not even surprised by the outcome of things, Akaashi thinks. “Can we call it a day?”

“Yeah, let’s go home.”

 

…

…

…

 

He falls asleep with his head on Bokuto’s chest as the older of the two recounts all the times he’d almost confessed to Akaashi in high school.

Admittedly, he’s listening more to the heartbeat under his ear, and supposes that Bokuto knows that.

In the morning, he’s woken by his alarm clock, and he grumbles about not turning it off the night before. Bokuto isn’t beside him, and when Akaashi glances across the room, he’s not in his own bed, either.

There’s noise coming from the kitchen, though. Familiar voices that he follows when he slides out of bed.

“Bokuto?” Akaashi runs a hand through his hair, turning the corner to the open space that doubled as a kitchen and a living room. Kuroo’s standing at an open cupboard and Yaku’s sitting at the two-person table scowling at a coffee mug.

Kuroo mumbles something that sound slike “g’morning.” (None of them are easy early risers.)

“Anyone seen Bokuto?”

The bowl that Kuroo is pulling from a shelf drops and clatters onto the counter. His back is facing Akaashi, and he can see his shoulders go rigid. Akaashi raises an eyebrow and looks towards Yaku, who has looked up from his coffee with wide, startled eyes.

Akaashi waits for an explanation in the following silence, and it doesn’t take long.

Kuroo turns, snapping his head towards Akaashi and slamming the cupboard closed. The sound is sharp in the small space, sending chills down Akaashi’s arms. Kuroo’s eyes are narrowed, head tilted as if to look at him better.

“What?”

“I said, has anyone seen--”

“ _I heard what you god damn said, Akaashi!_ ”

Akaashi takes a startled step back, wide awake and watching a furious Kuroo Tetsuro storm across the kitchen and grab him by the collar of his t-shirt. The legs of Yaku’s chair scrape across the floor as he stands.

“ _Where is he? Where is he, Akaashi?_ ” There’s a sharp shake, and he grabs at Kuroo’s wrists, can feel his hands trembling, breath short.

“ _He’s fucking dead!_ ” Kuroo’s face is so close to his that Akaashi can see the clench of his teeth, and Akaashi feels a weight drop painfully in his chest.

He’s dead.

It didn’t work.

Akaashi looks away from Kuroo, lets his head loll forward. Yaku’s hands are at both their chests, trying to push apart. Akaashi doesn’t hear what Yaku's shouting, but Kuroo’s talking low.

“You’ve always been this distant, emotionless, prick, Akaashi,” the words are stinging even before they come, because Akaashi knows exactly what Kuroo’s going to say. “And you didn’t deserve Bokuto. You didn’t.”

He let’s go with a shove, sending Akaashi staggering into the wall behind him. He wants to look up--wants to meet Kuroo’s eyes, wants to make the voice inside his head that says _try again try again try again_ shut _up_. Wants to tell Kuroo " _I know_."

Kuroo makes a noise of disgust before he walks out of the kitchen and, with a slam of the door, out of the apartment.

Yaku is in front of him moments later, grabbing his face and pushing fringe out of his eyes. Akaashi meets his eyes wearily.

“You lost a person that was part of you, Akaashi,” he says, face set and eyes steady. “But...just, please remember that Kuroo lost a best friend that was also part of _him_.”

Akaashi can only close his eyes and pretend that Yaku isn’t wiping the tears that drip from his eyelashes.

 

 


	6. Six Months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wonders how long it will take for Bokuto to get over him dying: a week? Two months? Six months?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> waahhh I'm almost done!! Just one more chapter (and an epilogue maybe...). All of your comments on the last chapter were so fun to read, thank you so much everyone!
> 
> Also this chapter was weirdly short?? I think I was going to write in something about Akaashi telling Suga about the time travel thing but. meh.

Akaashi is starting to hate the sound of his alarm clock.

He wakes up to it on January 5th, 2016.

Again.

 

…

…

…

 

He wants to scream.

…

…

…

 

The “Mornin’, Akaashi,” drifts across the room after he’s shut off his alarm, and Akaashi can’t decide if he’s relieved or if this just digs him deeper into the hole that this is becoming. There must be a part of him that’s doing this on purpose--that keeps sending him back to this day, to...he doesn’t know what. See Bokuto again? Try and save him again?

But he can’t keep reliving this.

On impulse, Akaashi makes the air around him stop, stares down his alarm clock until the digital numbers are paused. The dust caught in weak, watery rays of light filtering in through the bedroom blinds are suspended.

He sighs and looks across the room to Bokuto, who is looking back at him expectantly. If Akaashi’s managed to work this time travel thing right, then the only two people not stuck at 7:34 A.M. were in that room.

“Good morning, Bokuto.”

Akaashi makes a noise of defeat in the back of his throat, throwing sheets off his legs

and striding the small step to Bokuto’s bed.

…

…

…

 

His hands are buried in Bokuto’s hair, fingers gripping at the roots. Akaashi can feel the surprised sound Bokuto makes when he tilts his head back and presses their lips together, hears blood rushing in his ears. The angle is awkward, harsh, and Bokuto’s nose is pressing into his cheek, their teeth are scraping.

Akaashi’s not breathing--he’s sure if he was it’d be harsh, frantic puffs through his nose, but he’s not too concerned. He can feel Bokuto shifting, hands grabbing his hips, pulling him closer. His hands are light at his sides, but Bokuto’s rubbing circles with his thumbs, pulling his head away enough to leave light, lingering kisses over bruised lips.

Akaashi thinks that he could get used to things like this. Already likes the feel of his thighs on either side of Bokuto’s, likes the way Bokuto’s hair feels when it’s not gelled up in ridiculous spikes. Likes the smell of cinnamon shampoo and the chills that run up his spine and the heat curling in his stomach.

The universe owes him a few hours like this.

 

…

…

…

 

He presses his lips to Bokuto’s once more, closed mouth and lingering.

It tastes like a goodbye.

 

…

…

…

 

Akaashi fast forwards until he’s outside the library, in front of the crosswalk,waiting.

He’s not sure what to expect this time. Not sure if he’s even tried to expect what will happen. The concern is getting Bokuto out of the way, no matter what it takes, and making sure that whatever is wrong with _him_ \--whatever’s making Akaashi mess with time the way he is--is put to an end.

Akaashi figures that if time isn’t involved in saving Bokuto at all, maybe--just impossibly, hopefully, maybe--time won’t be able to intervene and rewind. Akaashi has no basis for this hypothesis, but he needs it to work.

(Desperately, desperately, _desperately_ needs it to _work_.)

When it happens, Akaashi’s surprised by how quick things work out. He’s sure its not anything on his part--it’s not him speeding things up or anything. It just, for once, works out in his favor.

The truck hits ice. Bokuto is in the dead center of the street. Akaashi finds himself at a half-jog, listening to brakes squeal and watching Bokuto’s gaze swivel to the truck and--this time, his eyes widen, Akaashi can tell he sees what’s happening, and he has a split second to look back to Akaashi, who’s running towards him. They’re both in the street, Akaashi’s shoving at his shoulders, pushing Bokuto back and away, and Akaashi puts all his weight into his arms.

It almost feels like a set.

Akaashi knows his feet are slipping out from under him--ice on the roads, his forward momentum--and he’s slipping, slipping, slipping.

He sees Bokuto’s face for an instant, and the horror that’s there is almost not worth what he’s done. (It’s too late now to say it’s what he’s going to do, really, because--)

Akaashi doesn’t feel the impact, but he knows that the truck hits him before he hits the street.

And--

Nothing. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this probably the first ever legit kissing scene I've ever written, so. I'm sorry if it's terrible and awkward and ugh


	7. Seven Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Seven years."  
> "Until what?"  
> "You'll tell me what really happened seven years from now. When we're married and we have a house and probably a dog--NO! Let's get an OWL."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's dooooone
> 
> This is like the first chapter anything I've finished in a really, really long time. So, huge thank you for reading, leaving kudos, commenting. You guys really made it worth while, so thanks! 
> 
> Also, since writing is a huge stress reliever for me (and because writing sad stuff made me sad) I think I'm going to write another bokuaka fic. But like. Happy all the time. And focused more on Bokuto. In a zoo. It's the zoo AU.

His eyelids feel heavy.  

All of him feels heavy, really, and his left side is entirely too hot. When he tries to move, there’s a dull, throbbing pain in the side of his head, and he stops to suck in a breath. It burns down his throat and there’s a pressure in his chest that makes him wish he was still asleep.

Akaashi’s eyes feel sleep-crusted when he manages to get them open, and the light overhead is harsh and hazy.

He hears the echoing tick of machines in an empty room, and when he looks around--the best he can without moving his neck--he recognizes the general layout of a hospital room. Mixed in with the smell of disinfectant and bleach is the unmistakable smell of cinnamon shampoo.

Akaashi lowers his chin the slightest bit--the only bit he can, really--and brushes hair. When he focuses on the warmth glued to his side, he can make out the knees buried beneath his legs, the hand fisted on top of his chest. He can see the white hair out of the corner of his eye if he twists enough.

Bokuto is sleeping beside him, nose pressed into his side. He can feel puffs of breath through the thin blanket that’s separating them. Bokuto is like a furnace--he knows this from experience; standing in close proximity, sleeping next to him at training camps, the last few days before he--

Akaashi bolts upright.

 _He was alive_.

He looks down to Bokuto, whose eyes are fluttering open.

_We’re both alive. I did it. It worked, it--_

Akaashi looks around for a date to confirm--he’ll take anything. Anything other than January 5th.

Bokuto is awake now, sitting up just as quickly as Akaashi had when he notices that Akaashi is sitting up in the first place.

“O-Oi! You aren’t supposed to be moving! Lay down--Keiji, you’re heart rate just skyrocketed, lay down, you’re gonna0 to tear your stitches--”

Akaashi turns to look at him. The bed is far too small for the both of them, and their faces are close enough that Akaashi can see the panic very plainly in Bokuto's eyes.

“Stitches?”

“Yes, stitches!” Bokuto’s taking him by the shoulders, fingers gently pushing him back into the bed. Akaashi settles in without complaint, waiting for an explanation. Bokuto looks at him incredulously.

“You dove in front of a truck. Can you remember anything? C-can you remember me?! What’s my name? What’s _your_ name!”

Akaashi closes his eyes and grins. “You’re Bokuto Koutaro, I’m Akaashi Keiji. I remember. What happened that I needed stitches, exactly? I really thought that I…”

“That you what?”

“That I wouldn’t wake up.”

Bokuto makes a helpless noise in the back of his throat before dropping his head to Akaashi’s shoulder. Akaashi winces, and the pain in his chest takes that moment to remind him that sitting up was a very, very bad idea. His lungs feel like they’ve been crushed by...well. By a truck.

“You have a concussion, four broken ribs, and a fractured shoulder blade. A...little bit of internal bleeding. They had to knock you out for a few days.” The strain in Bokuto’s voice is apparent, even if Akaashi can’t see his face. “Nothing too serious. All better now.”

The last part comes out in a small whisper that he wouldn’t have heard if Bokuto hadn’t been so close to his ear.

Akaashi tries to take a deep breath and aborts the inhale half way through. In the silence that follows, Akaashi glances to the wall on his right--there’s a clock ticking away (it’s a little after 9:00 A.M.) and he has a thought. It’s definitely not the 5th anymore, thank god, but…

Just to be sure.

Akaashi narrows his eyes, staring at the clock and picturing that timeline in his head. Puts a mental stop to its movement. Wills the clock to do the same, freeze, stop ticking, still--

Nothing.

Nothing happens.

Akaashi’s not sure if he should sigh in relief or be disappointed. Maybe...He’d been in a medically induced coma for a few days, according to Bokuto, so maybe…

Maybe he’d _dreamt_ the whole thing. Maybe his subconscious had taken the information it had and constructed a scenario to play out while he was under. Because, really, time travel--ridiculous, there was no possible way, really, and he’d had a feeling all along that it was just...too much, and--

“It would’ve been worse.” Bokuto is speaking against this shoulder again. “The doctor said it would’ve been worse if you hadn’t pushed me out of the way and fell. If you would have stood straight and met the impact head on, they said you wouldn’t have survived. And I--I couldn’t really do anything. I...didn’t know what was going on, and--”

Akaashi tries to lift his right hand, but the sharp, stinging pain in his shoulder has him giving up on that instantly. Instead, he turns his head to press a kiss to Bokuto’s temple.

“Stop. I’m fine. You’re fine. You’re too old to pout--I’d rather be here than you be dead because you weren’t paying attention when you crossed the street.”

He can feel Bokuto’s groan vibrate through his apparently-good shoulder. “So it is my fault!”

“It’s not your fault,” Akaashi sighs. “But I’m not letting you cross the street by yourself anymore.”

Bokuto is silent for a moment before: “Does that mean you’ll hold my hand when we cross the street?”

“That means I’ll hold your hand whenever you want, moron.”

…

…

…

 

The last box is by far the lightest one he’s had to carry up the three flights of stairs.

Akaashi sets it down on top of another labeled “kitchen” in Bokuto’s blocky handwriting. When he pries the box open, he’s expecting volleyballs, but instead he’s met with quite a few round eyes staring back at him.

He groans.

“Koutaro, you said you got rid of the stuffed owls.”

Bokuto is sticking his head out from the bedroom in seconds. “Akaashi Keiji, how dare you suggest I said such a heartless thing. Those are precious treasures and should be treated as such.”

“Okay,” Akaashi sighed, closing the box and moving it aside. “Sure.” He can convince him to get rid of them later.

“You can’t convince me to get rid of them later, either!”

Akaashi ignores him in favor of looking for the box with the cleaning supplies. He ends up digging through an unlabeled box filled with the miscellaneous things he’d packed from his dorm room, finding a few textbooks from last year (the first semester where he’d missed the first month of classes) and old papers.

Akaashi’s not sure why he didn’t throw them out, and when he lifts them from the box, the face of his old alarm clock is staring up at him.

“Ugh.” He grabs it and stacks it on top of the papers in his arms. It can go in the trash, too--he’s not sure why he didn’t get rid of it in the first place. Akaashi doesn’t know--he can’t know, not for sure--if the time travel deal was all  in his head, but even if it was…

He never wants to hear this stupid alarm clock again.

He pitches it into the nearest garbage bag at the same time Bokuto comes skidding into the room. He looks panicked.

“Keiji! We forgot to buy clocks! We have no clocks! Like, the ticky ones--we need the aesthetic--!”

Akaashi shakes his head as he moves to grab Bokuto’s hands, which are going for his hair, no doubt to tug at it. He’ll go bald if he keeps at that. “No. No clocks.”

Bokuto looks ready to pout. “Why not? They’re cool. They fit with the owls.”

“We’re getting rid of the owls.”

“Not all of them!”

“Some of them.”

“Fine. Clocks?”

“No.” Akaashi gives him a stern, no-nonsense look before letting go of Bokuto’s wrists and clasping his face between his hands. “Besides--” Akaashi drops the look and smiles (it’s a little self-deprecating, but Bokuto doesn't seem to notice) “--we’ve got plenty of time.”

 

...

...

...

 

 

Bonus:

 

"What's for dinner?"

"Pizza."

"Wha-no! Can't you make something?"

"Koutaro, you know I can't cook."

"But Keiji, you look so cute in an apron! Remember when--"

"That apron incident was more embarrassing for you than it was for me, why do you keep bringing it up?"

"But..."

"I'm not cooking, Bokuto. The last time I tried it I ruined the stove and caused a gas leak."

"Fine, fine. I'll cook. But you have to fix the clock on the oven after."

"What did you do to the clock on the oven?"

"I didn't do anything! But sometimes it'll just freeze for a few minutes while I'm making stuff. Like the other day, when you were standing right there in the doorway just watching and you thought I didn't notice but I did and the timer just stopped! It was weird..."

Akaashi tries to hide his grin. Isn't quite successful.

"Yeah, I'll fix it later."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon bokuto as like a master fucking chef you dont understand


End file.
